


Ficlets -- Warmth, Comfort, Breathless

by valancy_joy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/pseuds/valancy_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just a few things I had kicking around my hard drive...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ficlets -- Warmth, Comfort, Breathless

**Warmth**

The first time Sherlock shows up in John's doorway, barefoot, in his tatty pajamas and robe, John looks up at him, eyes narrowing.

Sherlock, all pale skin and eyes glowing in the moonlight, has one hand on the china doorknob.

"You were shouting," he says, softly, his voice unexpectedly kind.

"Yeah. Nightmare. Sorry," John tells him, thumping back onto the pillows, breathless and sweating.

Preoccupied with trying to get his breath back, and parse out what his dream had been about, John is oblivious to Sherlock’s presence in the room until he feels the dip in the mattress as he sits down on the edge of the bed. He places one hand on John's stomach and says, quietly, “Concentrate on my hand, John.”

John starts to object. "Hush. Lie still and concentrate on your breathing. Slow deep breaths." They stare at each other in the dim light of the bedroom until John gives in and does as Sherlock requests.

John lies there for a long time, taking deep breaths, Sherlock's hand warm and comforting.

He wakes alone, but there is a cup of tea steaming on the bedside table, and John stretches lazily, as the rare morning sunshine shines in through window.

 **Comfort**

They’re curled up on the couch one afternoon, relaxing at the conclusion of their latest case. Sherlock is reading a book balanced on the arm of the sofa. John, knackered from a double shift at the surgery followed by a late night crime scene, has plumped a pillow down on Sherlock's thigh and curled up, too tired to think about moving.

But he’s restless, and can’t seem to find a comfortable position.

As Sherlock reads, his other hand, the one not turning the pages, drifts to John's neck. John finds himself being idly stroked like a cat, fingers working along the nape of his neck, and running up into his hair, Sherlock's nails dragging along his scalp sending delicious shivers up and down John's spine. John gives a delicious little whimper and relaxes, warm and limp under Sherlock’s fingers.

"You should go to bed, John. Get some sleep."

"Not moving. Feels s'good," John sighs and pushes back into Sherlock's hand.

"What if I come with you?"

John rolls onto his back and looks up at Sherlock.

"Would you like that?"

"Oh God yes," John says with a smile.

 **Breathless**

They have a conversation one morning, as John is dozing on the couch after a long night shift doing locum work at the A&E, and Sherlock is gazing out the window, fingertips idly brushing over the woodwork.

"There are pieces of me that are missing John," Sherlock tells him.

"Do you care about the missing bits?" John says concentrating more plumping up his pillow and trying to find a more comfortable position than on Sherlock's words.

At Sherlock's silence, John looks up. Sherlock seems almost, well, confused, so John zeros back in on the conversation which was clearly more important that he'd realized.

"Do you want to fill those missing bits back up? Do we need to go and find the missing bits and drag them back home?"

John is looking at Sherlock, seeking the truth. John’s desire for truth is something that has the power, on rare occasions to make Sherlock almost dizzy. It’s brilliant and it makes Sherlock happy in ways he can’t quite explain. John is the one mystery that Sherlock has no wish to solve. He doesn’t understand this, but he’s learning to accept it.

Sherlock turns away from the window, and looks back at John, face shadowed, but the sunlight catches on disordered whorls of dark hair.

He feels he owes John the truth, but the truth is complicated.

"It's... They're not... No. I don't," Sherlock says stumbling over his thoughts in a way that unexpectedly makes John's heart hurt.

"Then perhaps," John says, pulling the throw over himself and sighing, "perhaps those bits aren't in fact missing. Maybe they were never intended to be there in the first place."

John’s deduction takes Sherlock’s breath away.


End file.
